


Heirlooms

by Emerla



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerla/pseuds/Emerla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps the choice is an odd one; Dior’s easy charm and Nimloth’s sharp edges, a far cry from the grave majesty of their predecessors. But in the fading years of the First Age there are no others to take up the crown, and they are still young enough to believe they can do anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/gifts).



There was something about Tol Galen utterly unlike the rest of Ossiriand. The trees were the same, the rush of a river somewhere nearby, the sun freckling her skin through the leaves, all characteristic of the leagues of forest Nimloth had traversed to get there, but here they were lighter and more pure than anywhere in Beleriand had a right to be in such times. Her knives and boots she left by the door.

Lúthien was on her knees in the garden, humming to herself.

“Come taste the strawberries,” she said. “They grow so well out here, we’ve been eating them for weeks.”

After sampling one, Nimloth volunteered to finish the rest.

“You’ll have to challenge Dior for them.”

“It won’t be a very fair fight.”

“Wait ‘til you see him,” Lúthien said with a smile. “He’s outgrown you.”

Nimloth shrugged, her fingers sneaking into the bowl again. “Still not a fair fight. Unless he’s been training in elven techniques too?”

“No, just with Beren.”

“It might be worth considering. I’ve been speaking to the northern Laegrim about orc raids on the borders, and the situation has been deteriorating for them since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” She ate another strawberry and pondered for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t mean to spoil your peace.”

Lúthien reached out and pulled the ties from her hair, letting it cascade down in a mass of silver curls. It was plaited so much of the time that it refused to be straight anymore.

“There’s not much that can spoil the peace here,” she said. “We’ve heard reports of the troubles in the north, but they’re remote, as if they aren’t quite real.”

“Well that sounds familiar,” Nimloth said. “Talking to anyone in Menegroth about increasing the defences on the borders only yields vague concern and absolutely no results. Even after Beleg and Mablung came back from the Nirnaeth – they might as well have gone to Valinor.”

“It’s easier to believe the Girdle is unassailable and your duties a mere precaution than to admit there’s a cause for concern,” Lúthien pointed out. “I was in charge of Menegroth during the First Battle, when nobody quite knew what was happening - you remember?”

“I fought in that battle and even I didn’t know what was happening,” Nimloth said.

“Exactly. For most of our people, the Girdle means they don’t have to think about what they cannot change. I know you aren’t at court much, but perhaps if you were you might understand them better.”

“If I were at court more, I’d be seriously concerned about turning into a misanthrope. You’re much more patient with people than I,” Nimloth said, tilting back her head to feel the sun on her face.

“Oh I’m not suggesting you should; I preferred the open forest too. But it doesn’t hurt to have friends in many places. Anyway, how are your grandparents? And everyone else? It’s been a long time since you were here last.”

“Has it?” Nimloth hadn’t noticed. Perhaps she should have; there were lines on Lúthien’s face now, but they suited this version of her, kneeling in the strawberry patch, sun-browned and happy and more real, somehow, than the immortal creature dancing through a thousand songs.

“Everyone’s fine. Well, your parents are worried about Túrin, but Beleg is with him so – wait, when was the last time I came? Do you know about Túrin?”

“Yes, you were complaining about him.”

“Me, complain? Oh, of course, about him being useless on patrol.” Feeling somewhat chastened, she added, “he got better. And then killed Saeros and ran off. It was the most drama we’ve had since you died. But I doubt it helped your parents, losing him so soon.”

“Perhaps it’s time Dior paid a visit,” Lúthien said.

“He’s welcome to come back with me,” Nimloth offered. “Though I’ll be travelling fast across the eastern plains; some of the creatures you find there now make the sons of Fëanor look nice.”

“Did you not come with an escort?”

“I didn’t want one; it might attract attention. But you are sure he’s capable of defending himself?”

“I wouldn’t let him go if I thought otherwise,” Lúthien said.

“What’s all this about me?” Dior flopped onto the grass beside them. “Hi Nimloth.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be smaller than me for at least another decade?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, grinning. “But seriously, where am I going?”

“Menegroth, to see your grandparents,” Lúthien said. “Nimloth is questioning whether your swordsmanship is proficient.”

“For what, duelling with courtiers? I don’t have that bad a temper, do I?”

“There are a fair few orcs between here and Doriath,” Nimloth said, watching for his reaction. Skill with a blade wasn’t worth much if he hadn’t the courage to use it.

“Oh. Well, I hope you’re defending me, Mother,” Dior said. He stretched out until he lay on his back, hands behind his head.

“And why would I not? I have full confidence in you, and in your father’s training. He could make an expert out of anyone,” Lúthien said, getting to her feet.

“I’m honoured.”

“Don’t worry,” Nimloth said, once Lúthien had returned to the house. “Your grandparents will have my head if you don’t get there safely, and your mother will do the same if I don’t bring you back.”

“So I’m safe because you have a strong sense of self-preservation? That’s not entirely reassuring.”

She flicked a daisy at his face. “Don’t come then.”

“And miss my chance to be the centre of attention? I think you underestimate how quiet this place is.”

“It was your ego I was underestimating. Not a mistake I’ll be making again.”

“Indulge me while I’m young and foolish.”

“You’re already the baby of the family,” Nimloth pointed out. “If you keep reminding people of it you’ll never be taken seriously.”

“No-one’s going to underestimate me,” he said, with the utter certainty of someone much older.

“Wait ‘til you get there in one piece before you go saying things like that,” Nimloth said.

“You don’t believe me? Let me prove it.”

“How?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll think of something on the way. But when I win, you have to teach me how to shoot properly. I’ve already mastered the sword.”

(On their journey, they forget about the wager. Nimloth shows him how to handle a bow the three days they spend holed up in a ravine waiting for an orc pack to pass. It’s something to ease the tension. Nimloth is coiled up like a trap ready to spring; at the slightest hint of movement she sends a knife flying across the gulley, only to impale an unwitting lizard.

Dior jumps. She forces a smile, says quietly, “sorry. I need distracting.”

He scoots over to sit beside her, hunched up below an outcrop he doesn’t entirely trust not to fall on them.

“What’s your plan? If they do find us, that is. How do we stay alive?”

“That’s the only way in from above.” She points. “It’s narrow, so we take them out one by one as they’re coming in, let the bodies pile up.” She glances at him. “You know what would be useful?”

Their ambush plot proves unnecessary, the archery lessons for nothing, but her light fingers on his as she corrects his technique are more than enough distraction.)


	2. Chapter 2

Dior wondered if the woods of Doriath had changed when his grandfather died. Were they darker, harsher, in the absence of a king to keep them from turning wholly wild? Did the Girdle break open with a flash of energy or simply fade, become air and light, incapable of holding off anything?

Ossiriand bristled with quiet anger, a forest arming itself, but Tol Galen, as always, was its own world. Not entirely untouched by the upheaval of far away; his mother couldn’t manage a smile, even at the sight of her grandchildren. He handed her Elwing, and she pressed a kiss to her head, holding the baby tighter than was strictly necessary. He hoped it would make this easier for her, having someone to wait with; there was little chance of their ambush going awry, but if Thingol could be cut down in his own halls…

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I expected to die before them,” Lúthien said, wistful. “And I was fully prepared for that. Losing them first will take some adjusting to. And you? You are not afraid?”

“I trust Nimloth and Father to come up with a strategy that won’t get me killed,” he said.

“I meant of the throne,” she said. “Of replacing my father.”

“No,” Dior said.

He could not be Thingol, and he didn’t want to be. His grandfather seemed to him living marble, unchanging and implacable, not alive the way his parents were. (It wasn’t a thought he could voice to Nimloth any more than he could his mother. The girl of steel and berry-stained fingers would wear the same face to mourn him as she had to marry him.)

“It hadn’t occurred to me to be afraid,” he said. “You braved Angband and came back alive; I can handle this. And I promise I will bring you back the silmaril.”

She nodded, reached for his hand. “Just don’t put your pride first. Your life is worth more, and I don’t want to raise your children for you.”

***

There were tears not far from the surface as Nimloth reacquainted herself with the place of which she was to be queen. She walked slowly, trailing her fingers along the passageways to feel the scars where pieces of her kingdom had been chipped away. Menegroth was big enough that for several months after, one might still find bloodstains in its farther reaches, grim memorials of the battle that ripped its heart out. Menegroth used to be safe; now it held ghosts.

Her sons were wide-eyed; they saw the grandeur of the halls, not the people missing from them. Dior was the same, looking beyond what was there – broken sculptures, frightened faces – to what could be there.

“We’ve inherited the bones of a greater age,” she said that night, the two of them alone in their new chambers. “If dwarves can be so destructive, what hope have we when Morgoth comes calling? And how are we to convince these people to trust in our abilities when I don’t even believe we can do this?”

“ _I_ believe we can,” he said. “Think what a legacy we could leave! Doriath is ours to make great again, and I will not be the king who let Beleriand’s greatest realm fall into obscurity.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “Can I borrow some of your blind optimism?”

He beckoned her closer, set a tiara upon her head – the only one of Melian’s jewels not taken during the sack, by some accident caught out of sight beneath the fallen body of a handmaiden.

“Try this instead,” he said. “You don’t have to believe it yet, but you can look the part. Do you know what someone called me today? Eluchíl.”

“Dior Eluchíl,” she said, testing it out. “I like it. But are you sure you want to invite that comparison?”

“He is my only predecessor, I can hardly avoid it,” he pointed out. “And that degree of association with Thingol cannot hurt; they don’t know my face like they do yours.”

“It’s not just about how right you are for the kingship. They’re scared, Dior. This place was untouchable. I can order more patrols, triple the guard, but I don’t know how to take away that fear. Do you?”

“Set an example,” he said. “We fix this place up, restore some form of normality. Keep our children visible, so they think of the future, not the past.”

“It sounds like you have it all sorted,” she said.

“Of course I do.”

***

“The orders are given,” Nimloth said briskly as she entered the room, her weapons clinking against her armour. “Our forces will be on the march within the hour.”

Dior had laid Aranruth and the Nauglamír out side by side, the sword and the silmaril glittering coldly in the glow of a single lantern. He studied them intently, hands clasped together, the smiles and easy charm given way to singular purpose.

“The symbols of my reign,” he said. “And both belonged to my grandfather. Is this to be how I distinguish myself, my willingness to shed blood for the memory of a dead king?”

“The silmaril was your parents’ achievement,” she said. “Upholding their legacy, Thingol’s legacy, is the basis of yours.”

“But I have done nothing of my own, not yet. I haven’t had enough time, and what could I ever do that will be more memorable than this, a battle of elf against elf in the woods which have seen no bloodshed since before the sun?”

“The time of great heroes has passed, Dior,” Nimloth said. “We must be survivors first. Focus on staying alive before you worry about how you’ll be remembered.”

“And what of those who would not rally to my summons?” Dior said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Do they think I’m weak? Or selfish, for being willing to let others die for something so personal?”

“Listen to me,” she said, planting her hands on the table and staring at him until he met her gaze. “This is just the battle nerves speaking. Everyone who fights for you believes in you. Their loyalty is worth more than numbers when we are fighting our own, and we fight on familiar territory. We will win this.”

“I don’t doubt you, I know you’ve done this before,” he said.

(She hasn’t. She knows battle, not kinslaying.)

“I don’t even doubt myself, really,” Dior continued. “I know I’ve made the right decision, but I don’t want to kill to defend it, nor to try and justify my actions in the aftermath when I’ve bloodied my hands.”

“This is not your fault,” she insisted. “They are the aggressors, they forced your hand and turned this into a matter of violence. We are acting in self-defence.”

“And surrendering the jewel to them would undermine all we have achieved. I know,” he said. “I keep going over the options again, hoping there’s another answer.”

“You’re out of time,” Nimloth said. “Let me help you with your armour.”

Hers was well-worn; his had seen battle only once before, at Sarn Athrad, where he’d fought for the same thing he was about to now. _Eluchíl._ At least he’d lived up to his name - Thingol had done as he had, held onto the Silmaril whatever the cost.

He doesn’t realise the choice he’s repeating had been Thingol’s death warrant.


End file.
